They are. So done. When Steve is actually annoyed at a pair of pants. A pair of amazing pants, the hug all the right places, that he'd barely gotten a few minutes to see doing so. They aren't skin tight, because it is Danny they're talking about, choosing something to wear around his daughter, but they fit well. At least as well as any of his dress slacks, and his dress slacks had attempt killing Steve's mind enough over the last year.

He wants to see every angle of them, still. When Danny isn't leaning on his fridge, staring at a bottle of beer, with the most hangdog expression possible. When he could be appreciating them and not caught up in so much awkwardness you could use something to cut it. But not right now. Not today. Not this second. Not when his hands are literally sliding under Danny, tilting him by his ass and his hips to grab denim, and pull hard.

The whole process, and Danny's bitching about not being undressed fast enough, or already, make Steve laugh a laugh that has so little air actually in it, saying only, "Half the incentive, or insanity," even as he has to move to be able to pull or push the jeans anywhere past where his own legs intersect Danny. Making him spring back with a step, to half standing off the couch, and keep pulling.

Until all Danny has left is boxers and socks, which shouldn't make him smile, but it does. The whole thing does.

Pants hitting the ground, and Steve lunging right back for where he had been. Straddling Danny's legs, when one hand is demanding his jaw and his lips, kissing Danny like the minute involved in getting him out of his clothes might have been too long. One minute away from him. One minute gone. The other hand moving from catching and balancing himself over Danny, to find Danny's side, muscles there. Warm and just a little slick.

But not stopping, until his fingers are rubbing the rise of Danny's body only broken by over-warmed boxer material now.